


Lock and Key

by Piscaria



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Community: stop_drop_howl, Episode Tag, M/M, Mind Control, Nemeton, Rough Sex, Spoilers:Episode 3x16 (Illuminated)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-30
Updated: 2014-01-30
Packaged: 2018-01-10 14:07:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,443
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1160581
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Piscaria/pseuds/Piscaria
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After the events of 3x16, Stiles doesn't trust himself to sleep alone. Unfortunately, sleeping with Derek isn't that much safer.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Lock and Key

**Author's Note:**

> This story was written for the 24 hour porn challenge community, [Stop_Drop_Howl](http://stop-drop-howl.livejournal.com/) for Dephigravity's prompt _doesn't play well with others._
> 
> Unbeta'd and (obviously) written in 24 hours. 
> 
> Contains spoilers for episode 3x13.

Even after three hours of cleaning, the loft still reeks of strangers. The lingering scents of teen hormones, perfume and cologne, body paint, cheap beer, sweat, sex, and vomit have permeated every surface. Derek is dizzy with it. He’s opened all of the windows and dialed down his senses to human levels, but still, his head aches. The wolf inside him is pacing furiously, and Derek is half considering peeing in the corners just to mark this space as _his_ again when three loud knocks sound from the loft’s steel door.

Derek startles, almost dropping the sponge he’d been using to scrub paint off his wall. Someone has disabled his proximity alarm, and with his senses suppressed, he hadn’t even heard the footsteps in the hallway outside. Recovering quickly, he leaps over the couch. He unlocks the door with a fast, furious turn of the lever, sliding it open hard enough that it rattles in its tracks, disappearing back into the wall with the speed and force of a freight train. On the other side of the door, Stiles flinches. 

His hair is a mess, like he's been dragging his fingers through it. The pizza box he's holding out in front of him is trembling. He looks a second away from crying, or maybe throwing up. The last time he showed up on Derek's doorstep looking like this, his dad had just been kidnapped. Then, the surge of protective instincts that had welled up inside of Derek had surprised him. He feels a faint echo of those instincts now, the wolf inside him clamoring to tug Stiles close, to lick the salt from his cheeks and nuzzle his hair until his breathing evens out. Derek ignores it with long practice. 

“What the hell are you doing here?” he demands.

“I heard you came back,” Stiles says, giving Derek a smile that doesn’t meet his eyes. “Pizza?” He holds the box out between them like a peace offering. 

Even with his senses dialed down, Derek can smell the delicious scents of garlic, grease, and melted cheese wafting up from the box. His stomach growls, reminding him that he hasn’t eaten since that handful of Halloween candy on the drive home from the grocery store. But Derek has spent the last three hours scrubbing vomit out of the grout between his bathroom tiles, washing glow-in-the-dark paint off his brick walls, and bagging up beer cans, cups, candy wrappers, empty tubes of body paint, and even a few used condoms. 

He grabs the pizza box out of Stiles’s hand, tempted to slam the whole thing down over the kid’s head. "Is this your idea of an apology?" 

“Apology?" Stiles asks, sounding confused. "What did I do?"

“You know what you did!” 

“No, I really don’t,” Stiles says. Now he has the nerve to sound pissed off, like he’s the one who’s had his home violated. And that, really, is the last straw. 

Furious, Derek tosses the pizza box back into the loft, hearing to the cardboard skid over the freshly-mopped floor behind him. Whatever. Melted cheese is hardly the worst thing he’s had to clean up lately. Catching Stiles by the front of his t-shirt, he slams him against the wall, high enough that Stiles’s feet are scrabbling to reach the floor. Derek steps closer, getting right up in his face. Even now, Stiles’s scent is familiar, comforting against the barrage of stranger-smells Derek has been trying to clean up all night. This only pisses Derek off even more.

“I gave you that key for emergencies!” he yells. “Damnit, Stiles, I trusted you!” 

Realization blooms across Stiles’s face the same time his body gives off a pungent wave of fear that makes Derek realize how far he’s turned his senses up again without meaning to. The fear should make Derek happy, but it only twists the anger and hurt even further. It’s been a long time since Stiles has been afraid of Derek. 

He drops Stiles, who falls to his knees, grunting a little in pain and surprise. A second later, Stiles is scrambling in his pocket for something. When he pulls out his key ring, the fear smell grows even stronger. 

“Shit!” Stiles groans, throwing the keys down hard enough that they bounce before coming to land against Derek’s boot. Derek glances down at them, just quick enough to confirm that his loft key isn’t there. Stiles lets his head drop onto the brick wall with an audible thump. “Shit,” he says again, and pulls back just enough to slam his head into the wall again. The third time, Derek is on his knees, hand sliding in to catch Stiles’s forehead before it can connect. Stiles’s skin is human cool and sweaty. He shakes his head against Derek’s hand, then pulls back, giving Derek an imploring look.

“I’m sorry,” he says. “I don’t know . . . I can’t . . .” The words are breathy, too quickly. From this close, Derek can hear the rapid tattoo of his heartbeat. 

Derek’s fingers are still outstretched in the space between them, and without quite meaning to, he catches Stiles’s shoulder, squeezing gently. “What happened?” he asks. 

Stiles’s laugh sounds almost hysterical. “God, I wish I knew!” 

* * *

By some miracle, the pizza box didn’t come open, though half of the toppings are stuck to the lid. Derek sets it on the couch between them, and they pick rubbery cheese and cold pepperoni right off cardboard, licking the grease from their fingers as Stiles launches into some story about a new key on his ring and numbers on a chalkboard in his handwriting. 

“I don’t know what’s happening to me,” Stiles finishes. He glances down at the grease-soaked cardboard box on Derek’s coffee table like it might hold the answers. “I’m losing track of what’s real and what’s not. Everything’s just kind of a blur right now. Deaton says the ritual we did opened a door inside our minds. Something is trying to get in.” He leans his head back against the sofa, eyes falling shut as he shakes his head. “I think someone already has," he confesses in a low voice. "I think I tried to kill somebody. I might try to do it again.” Stiles opens his eyes, leaning forward suddenly to catch Derek’s wrist. “Don’t let me!” he pleads. “I don’t trust myself right now. Just . . .keep an eye on me, please! Let me stay here tonight.”

“Why are you asking me?” Derek asks. “Why not your dad or Scott?” 

“No!" Stiles’s grip tightens on Derek’s wrist. If Derek were human, it would leave a bruise. “Derek, I’m not exactly playing well with others right now. I can’t be anywhere near them!”

“Because you care about them,” Derek says, and it comes out sounding a little hollow. 

But Stiles is shaking his head. “Because they care about _me_! If it came down to it, neither of them would be willing to hurt me, not even if it meant saving themselves.” 

“And I would,” Derek says. It’s not, quite, a question. 

Stiles is still holding on to Derek’s wrist, but his grip has gentled. He runs his fingers gently up and down Derek’s pulse point, giving him an apologetic smile. “You’re like me,” he says. "You'll do what it takes. And you won’t let me bullshit you, or convince you everything is okay when it isn’t." 

Derek can only stare at him. His mouth has gone dry. 

“Can I stay?” Stiles asks, still holding onto him. 

“Fine,” Derek says, and this time, Stiles’s smile is genuine.

* * *

After three hours of cleaning, Derek is in desperate need of a shower, so he leaves Stiles on the couch playing some game on his phone. Only in the safety of the hot, fragrant water does Derek allow his shoulders to relax. He tilts his face into the water, wanting to laugh, to cry, to punch through the bathroom wall. He holds his wrist up to examine the bruises Stiles’s fingers had pressed into his skin – bruises that Derek has purposefully kept from healing. He can still feel the phantom pressure of Stiles’s hand, still smell the faintest trace of him against his skin. Shoulders shaking in something soundless that might be a laugh, might be a sob, Derek forces himself to let go. The bruises fade. 

_You idiot,_ he tells himself, reaching for the bottle of shampoo. Not for the first time, Derek wonders if he’s even capable of being attracted to anybody who is not unhinged and possibly evil. 

When he gets out of the shower, Stiles is curled up in one corner of the couch, his hoodie bunched awkwardly beneath his head in a makeshift pillow. He’s still playing with his phone, but when Derek steps out of the bathroom in a towel, Stiles looks up from the game, mouth falling open.

“Hoooo boy,” Stiles mutters under his breath, quiet enough that Derek probably wasn’t supposed to hear it. 

“What?” Derek asks, unselfconsciously letting the towel drop to the floor as takes a pair of briefs from his closet. 

“Let’s just say that I’ve come to an uncomfortable personal realization,” Stiles says. The sticky, spicy scent of lust is rolling off him in waves, thick enough that Derek can almost taste it. That’s nothing new – Stiles is seventeen. He always smells like lust. But the way he is carefully avoiding looking at Derek is new. He’s rolled over on the sofa, is staring quite determinedly at the cushions. 

“And?” Derek asks, pulling on a pair of sweats before Stiles manages to give himself a heart attack. 

Cautiously, Stiles glances over his shoulder at him, breathing out an audible sigh of relief to see that Derek is clothed. 

“I think I might be a little bit bi,” he admits, his voice coming out strangled and breathless. 

Derek rolls his eyes. “Welcome to the club,” he says, catching Stiles by the elbow. “Come on. Bed.” He tugs him up, propelling him towards the bed on the other side of the loft.

“Bed?” Stiles asks, his cheeks turning nearly the same color as his lacrosse jersey. "I thought . . . I mean . . . you made Isaac sleep on the floor.” 

Derek shrugs. "You're not Isaac," he says. What he doesn't say is that even after stripping the sheets and Febreezing the mattress, his bed smells like at least five different couples have been rolling around in it. Stiles smells comforting, safe and familiar. If Derek focuses on his scent, he might be able to get some sleep tonight. Stiles’s mouth is still opening and shutting in a way that reminds Derek of a fish, so he adds, “I’m supposed to keep an eye on you, remember? I can’t do that if you’re all the way over there on the couch.”

“I kind of thought we could stay up watching TV or something,” Stiles admits.

“I drove for six hours today, got beaten up and marked by whatever those things are, and then I had to clean up after the party your friends threw in my loft because _you_ couldn’t keep track of your key,” Derek points out. “I am not staying up to watch whatever you consider to be entertainment.” 

“I’d let you pick!” Stiles protests. At Derek’s disbelieving eyebrow raise, he grins, running a hand through his hair. “Okay, I totally wouldn’t. You win.” He glances at the bed, licking his lips. “This is . . . it’s not going to be weird, is it?” 

“Only if you make it weird,” Derek says, climbing under the covers. The bed still smells just as wrong as he remembered. Impatiently, he lifts the covers for Stiles, who is hesitating with his hands on the button of his jeans, obviously torn on whether or not to take them off. 

Derek makes the decision easier for him, rolling over so he isn’t watching. A few moments later, he hears the rustle of denim hitting the ground. Stiles slides into bed beside him, bare legs brushing briefly against Derek’s before he settles himself, flopping down onto his side, facing away from Derek.

Rolling onto his back, Derek settles into his usual sleeping position. They’re not touching, but he can feel the heat of Stiles’s body along his side. When he breathes in, all he can smell is Stiles. He closes his eyes, feeling the wolf inside him finally beginning to still. 

On the other side of the bed, Stiles lets out a shaky breath. “Derek?” 

“What?” Derek asks, not opening his eyes. 

"You’re not a heavy sleeper, are you? What if I get up and try to kill somebody, and you sleep through it?” 

“Believe me,” Derek says, “that won’t be a problem.” Since the fire, Derek has slept so fitfully that Laura used to joke he would wake up if he so much as heard a spider crawling across the ceiling.

“I just don’t trust myself right now,” Stiles says softly. Rolling over to face Stiles, Derek opens his eyes, looks at the vulnerable line of his spine beneath his thin t-shirt. Tentatively, he reaches out, curls his arm around Stiles’s chest.

"Trust me, then," Derek says. 

Stiles’s fingers come to rest on the back of Derek’s wrist. “I do,” he says quietly. 

Unable to completely suppress his smile, Derek closes his eyes, nestling in close to Stiles. Thin fingers dance a restless rhythm across the back of his hand.

“Derek?” Stiles says again.

“What?” Derek asks, his voice coming out sharp.

“I’m glad you're back,” Stiles says quietly. “I missed you.” He wriggles backwards, pressing his back along Derek’s front. Derek allows him closer, swallowing down the sudden lump in your throat.

“Me too,” he manages after a second. But Stiles is already snoring quietly.

* * *

When the sound of Stiles slipping out of bed wakes Derek, the bedside clock reads 3:47. Quietly, Derek lies in bed, tracking the sound of Stiles’s bare feet across the floor. He’s wondering if he’ll have to get up, physically restrain Stiles. Derek doesn’t want to get up. The bed is soft and smells like him and Stiles. Derek hasn’t slept this well in _years._ But Stiles’s footsteps only disappear into the bathroom. A second later, there’s the telltale sound of piss hitting the toilet bowl. Derek focuses his attention instead on the hum of the radiator, until the facet turns on. Stiles emerges from the bathroom, crosses back to the bed. His eyes widen when he catches sight of Derek watching him.

“Sorry,” Stiles says. His voice is quiet, private in the early darkness of the morning. “Did I wake you?”

“Isn’t that the point?” Derek asks around a yawn.

Stiles’s teeth flash bright in the dark shadows of the loft. “Yeah,” he admits. He is up on one elbow now, watching Derek with eyes that are too serious for the early hour. Derek wants to look away. He forces himself not to, keeping his gaze locked with Stiles’s. In his peripheral vision, he sees the glowing numbers on the bedside clock count higher. 

Derek is still waiting for the gridlock to end when Stiles leans down, brushing his lips over Derek’s. 

“Thank you,” he says quietly. “For everything.” 

In the warm, protected sanctuary of the bed, it’s easy for Derek to press up onto his elbows, returning the chaste kiss with one of his own. Their lips cling together for a moment before he pulls away. “You’re welcome.” 

He intends to stop it there, to roll over and go back to sleep. He really does. But then Stiles’s lanky form is climbing on top of him, bare legs cool and impossibly long as they straddle Derek’s hips. His mouth returns to Derek’s with purpose this time, catching his bottom lip between his teeth. Derek knows that he should push him away. Stiles is only seventeen. But when his tongue traces the seam of Derek’s lips, Derek’s mouth falls open for him instinctively. The wolf inside has practically rolled over, showing its soft, vulnerable belly. Stiles smells like teenage lust, but also like Derek. His tongue is surprisingly clever as it dance’s against Derek’s, and his hips are hitching forward in delicious little circles that are driving Derek out of his mind. And damnit, it has been a shitty day, and just this once, Derek wants something good. 

He throws himself into the kiss with everything he’s got, sliding his hands up under Stiles’s t-shirt. Stiles lifts his arms, allows Derek to strip it off. His skin is soft, refreshingly cool against Derek’s werewolf body heat when they press their chests together. It’s as comforting as slipping into cool cotton sheets on a hot night. Derek revels in the sensation of bare skin against skin, running his hands over every part of Stiles he can reach. His skinny, ticklish ribs. The furry softness of his belly. The meaty curve of his ass beneath his boxers. All the while, Stiles keeps kissing him, his jaw, the spot behind his ear. When he latches his teeth into Derek’s throat, Derek groans, throwing his head back to give him access. Stiles’s lips are red and puffy when he lifts his head up a second later. His smile is secretive and smug, like the cat that’s gotten all the cream.

“You are so hot,” he murmurs, trailing his fingers down Derek’s chest, skimming over the line of hair leading into his sweats. He lifts his eyebrows, plucking questioningly at Derek’s waistband. 

“God, yes,” Derek groans, shimmying out of his sweats. A second later, Stiles is nuzzling into his crotch, pressing kiss after kiss down the length of Derek’s cock. He flicks the tip of his tongue out to taste, and Derek shudders. Taking a steadying breath, he reaches for Stiles’s face, running fond fingers down his cheek.

“Only if you’re sure,” he says. “You don’t need to do anything you’re not comfortable with.”

“Believe me, I am so sure, baby,” Stiles says. The cadence of his voice is wrong, somehow, and Derek frowns, lifting up on his elbows to look down at him. But before he can work out what, exactly, bothered him, Stiles is swallowing him down with far more finesse than Derek would have expected from a virgin. The next few moments pass in a blur of wet heat, Stiles’s gorgeous mouth stretched obscenely around him, his fingernails biting crescents into Derek’s hips as he urges him to rock forward, faster and faster, fucking his face with abandon until he finally spills down Stiles’s throat with a strangled cry. Derek collapses against the sheets, breathing like he’s been in a fight. Stiles’s hands skim down his hips, come to rest on his ass. 

“Please say that I can fuck you,” Stiles says, his fingers teasing over Derek’s hole. 

In all of the furtive encounters with men Derek has had in nightclub bathrooms and back alleys, he’s never allowed anybody this before. But none of them had been Stiles. None of them smelled like safety and home. Derek’s knees are drawing up to his chest before he’s made the conscious decision to do so. 

Grinning like he’s just won the lottery, Stiles crawls over Derek to retrieve the bottle of lotion from the nightstand. He slicks up two fingers and shoves them both in at once. Derek gasps at the sting, but Stiles soothes him with a lingering kiss to the crease of his thigh. 

“You can take this, sweetie,” he promises, working in another finger. 

Again, something about the phrasing bothers Derek. But then Stiles is rising up onto his knees, lifting Derek’s legs over his shoulders. A second later, he’s pressing inside, and Derek is groaning, impaled. He tosses his head back against the mattress, knowing his eyes are glowing and his fangs are out, but unable to reign them back in.

“Fuck, yeah,” Stiles groans as he bottoms out. He runs a hand down Derek’s sideburn, pressing his lips once more to the pulse in his throat. “You feel amazing, Derek. You’re so fucking tight.” 

“Stiles,” Derek chokes out, reaching for his hand. Stiles squeezes it, already starting to pick up his rhythm. It hurts. It’s too much, too fast. But Derek is a werewolf. He’ll heal. So he doesn't shove Stiles off him, just grunts and takes it, gulping in lungfuls of Stiles's scent.

“I always wanted to do this,” Stiles confesses, bringing Derek’s hand to his wrist and biting down hard, a bruising counterpoint to the rough slam of his hips as he drives himself deeper and deeper into Derek. “Always wanted to take you like this, watch you open up for me. So glad I can now.” 

“Stiles,” Derek sobs, as Stiles wraps a hand around his cock, bringing him back to hardness with a few deft strokes. When Derek comes again, for the second time in the space of about fifteen minutes, his balls ache from it. A second later, Stiles slams inside him and stays there, teeth lingering over Derek’s pulse point as he shudders and comes inside him. 

They both collapse on the mattress, sweat-soaked and gasping. Derek’s eyes flutter shut. He feels wrung out, utterly drained. His fingers are moving limply through Stiles’s hair. After a few minutes, Stiles rallies himself with a groan. Bare feet pad across the floor, into the bathroom. He returns a few minutes later with a washcloth. It’s a little too cold, and Derek flinches away from it without meaning to.

“Sorry,” Stiles says absently. A second later, the unexpected press of a pen’s nib into the hollow of his hip has Derek snapping his eyes open.

“What the hell are you doing?” he asks.

Stiles gives him that same secretive, smug grin as before, the pen still moving across Derek’s skin. “Marking my territory,” he said. “You know those will fade as soon as you fall asleep.” Dropping the pen, he skims his fingers over the marks on Derek’s throat, surveying them almost proudly. 

Giving a mock growl, Derek bears him down to the mattress, dragging his cheek across Stiles’s throat hard enough that he knows the stubble will burn. Stiles laughs as he sucks his own hickey into place above his collarbone, hands running appreciatively over the muscles of Derek’ back. Derek falls asleep that way, his face pressed into Stiles’s throat, breathing in the sweet, intoxicating scent of him.

* * *

When he wakes up the next morning, the bed is empty. For a second, panic spikes through him. He thinks Stiles has escaped. Then he hears his heartbeat coming from the sitting area. It’s fast. Too fast. Stiles's breath is coming sharp and ragged.

“Stiles?” Derek asks, climbing out of bed. He finds Stiles sitting on the couch, his knees drawn up to his chest, hugging them. He’s dressed again, jeans and all. Above the collar of his t-shirt, the love bite Derek left stands out sharply against his pale skin. Derek’s stomach sinks at the expression on his face.

“Stiles,” Derek says again, sinking onto the couch beside him. “What’s wrong?” 

Stiles shakes his head, foot moving restlessly on the sofa. When he finally speaks, his voice sounds raw. “Did I hurt you?” 

“It was a little rough,” Derek says carefully. “But I can take it. It’s your first time, it’s only natural that . . . “ He breaks off, confused. 

The tang of salt blooms in the air between them, and Stiles buries his face in his hands. 

“Stiles?” Derek asks, reaching to curl a hand around Stiles’s shoulder. Stiles flinches at the touch, and Derek pulls back, stung.

“It was my first time, “Stiles laughs brokenly, rubbing his hand over his eyes. “And the last thing I remember is waking up in the middle of the night to take a piss.” 

“Oh God,” Derek whispers. The room spins around him. He wants to throw up. “I’m sorry,” he stammers, sliding off the couch and onto the floor. “I’m so sorry, Stiles. I shouldn’t have . . . I thought you wanted . . . “

He breaks off, shuddering. Now, he is remembering all of the things that felt wrong about the night before. Stiles’s surprising skill. The way he’d spoken to Derek, possessive, not at all nervous. _You fucking moron,_ that voice inside him says. Derek buries his face in his hands, tries to get control of his breathing. 

“I’ll go,” he says at last. He can’t bring himself to look at Stiles. “I’ll leave Beacon Hills again. You won’t have to see me.”

“No!” Stiles gasps, grabbing hold of Derek’s wrist. “You can’t leave! Not now that I know I actually have a chance with you!” 

“But you’re upset,” Derek says. 

Stiles stares at him like he’s an idiot. “I just lost my virginity and I don’t remember a goddamn second of it!” he snaps. “Damn right I’m upset!” He drops his head down to rest against Derek’s shoulder, drawing in a shuddering breath. “And it’s not just that,” he said. “I have proof now. Something is walking around inside of my head, and I gave it the goddamn key!”

“We’ll figure something out,” Derek says, barely recognizing his own voice. He’s clinging to Stiles now, holding on for dear life. “We’ll talk to Deaton. I’ll even track down Peter again. Whatever it takes, Stiles, I am going to make this right.”He pulls back, staring into Stiles’s eyes.

A muscle jumps in Stiles’s cheek, then he nods, dropping his gaze. A second later, he freezes. “Derek?” he says in a strangled voice.

“What is it?” Derek asks, leaning back on his heels.

Swallowing, Stiles reaches out, touches his fingers to Derek’s hip. Frowning, Derek looks down, surprised to see black ink against his skin. He remembers, now, Stiles (not Stiles) smiling smugly to himself as he wrote on Derek’s kin.

Derek claps a hand over his mouth.

He barely making it to the bathroom in time to retch into the toilet. Stiles chases after him. His hand lands firm and strong on Derek’s shoulder, the way it had when Boyd died. Despite everything that has happened, it’s soothing. Derek leans back into it. He shudders. Spits. Wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. Shakily, he climbs to his feet, catching sight of their reflections in the bathroom mirror, Derek naked, the smear of ink on his hip, Stiles fully clothed, neck bruised. Both of their eyes drift, again, to the signature on Derek’s hip. It’s loopy cursive, framed by a cheerful heart. Derek can’t read it in the mirror, but he doesn’t have to. He’s read it dozens of time, seen it written on the bottom of secret love notes before he lit the match and burned them, the way she always instructed.

Kate Argent.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! Comments and kudos are always appreciated. As always, you're welcome to follow me on [Tumblr](http://piscaria.tumblr.com/), [LJ](http://piscaria.livejournal.com), or [DW](http://piscaria.dreamwidth.org).


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